


The Ice Bucket Challenge

by bethepuck



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Ice Bucket Challenge, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-18
Updated: 2014-08-18
Packaged: 2018-02-13 17:45:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2159511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bethepuck/pseuds/bethepuck
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cristiano Ronaldo is nominated to complete the ice bucket challenge and nominates none other than Lionel Messi to do the same.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Ice Bucket Challenge

**Author's Note:**

> The song Flipside by Lana Del Rey was what I listened too while writing this fic and Loco by Enrique Iglesias as well. If you guys want, I can add the picture motivations I had, just ask and I'll attach 'em. 
> 
> P.S. it's okay to comment and tell me what you think!
> 
> My tumblr is: http://messcri.tumblr.com  
> I post all Leo Messi, Cristiano Ronaldo, Madrid, and Barcelona.

Cristiano gapes at the screen, half out of curiosity, half out of awe. Sure, he’d heard about the ice bucket challenge and someone was _bound_ to challenge him sooner or later, but the information never really sunk in. The videos have been all over social media for the past month, but the first one he ever really bothered to watch all the way through is still running on repeat for the fifth time, grinning at him dead in the face.

 _“And also Cristiano Ronaldo I wanna see you do it next…”_ Darren Fletcher’s thick Scottish accent pierces through Ronaldo’s subconscious, drawing his eyes back down to his phone. Quickly, he locks the screen, briefly looking around at his empty kitchen, early morning light flooding in through a window. It’s been a while since he’s had company, aside from several team parties and a few one night stands. With the daily training sessions and workouts, it’s not like he’s really had _time_ to settle down and meet someone…

The phone vibrates against his unconsciously sweaty palm, a text form Sergio complaining that he’s been waiting outside for the past five minutes for Cristiano to grab his bag. Grunting at the reminder, he swings his bag over his shoulder easily, tucking his phone into his pocket, and making his way out the door.

The defender is scrolling through his phone in the driver’s seat of his own car when Cristiano gets in, shutting the door loudly, making his presence immediately known. Ramos barely spares him a glance and starts the car, pulling out of the gate and onto the road.

“Have you ever heard of the ice bucket challenge?” Cristiano huffs when Sergio reaches out to turn the radio on, forcing him to rethink his decision and withdraw his hand back to the steering wheel.

“The one for ALS?” Sergio responds good-naturedly.

“No the _other_ ice bucket challenge,” Cristiano glares.

“Woah relax, Cris, what about it?” Sergio defends rather calmly, eyes on the road.

Cristiano stares down the dashboard in silent abhorrence of the situation.

“Did you get challenged or something?” Ramos grins from the corner of his mouth slightly.

No response from the passenger’s side.

“You did didn’t you? Who challenged you? Was it Iker?” Sergio is a little too excited about this for Cris’ liking.

“No,” he growls.

“I know! Was it Messi?” Sergio’s grin is splitting his face, glancing from the road to see Ronaldo’s expression fully.

“What?” The last person on earth Cristiano expected Sergio would bring up in such a conversation is Lionel Messi.

“It definitely was! God, that little guy has always had it out for you, Cris,” Sergio laughs a little to himself, proud of his detective skills.

“No, fuck no, absolutely not. It was Fletcher, he challenged me this morning or last night or whatever,” Cristiano replies, flustered.

“From Manchester? Why the hell is _he_ nominating _you_?” Sergio deflates only a little from the news, mainly because it’s not as juicy gossip as previously suspected.

“I don’t know, but do I have to _do_ it?” Cristiano asks. This car ride feels like eternity even though the training facility is right around the corner.

Sergio acts as though he didn’t hear the question fully, “What do you mean do you have to do it? _Of course_ you do. It’s for _charity_. You can’t just _not do it_ , you’ll look like a dick. A bigger dick than you already are, naturally.”

Cristiano huffs out a sigh. There’s no way out of it.

“It’s not that bad, stop acting so dramatic. It’s for a good cause, anyway. Just suck it up, nominate a couple people, and enjoy it,” the defender pulls into the parking lot, ending the conversation.

It turns out that Cristiano isn’t the only one who has been recently nominated. Marcelo shares Ronaldo’s same nervousness, without the anger piece, and the guys pressure the two of them into getting it over with after training that morning.

Cristiano is a little more relaxed with his own challenge after Marcelo asks him to do the honor of pouring the his ice bucket. Sergio, being the ever-helpful teammate that he is, suggests that Cristiano complete his challenge wearing nothing but his underwear. The rest of the guys second the suggestion. Pepe claims that it is “exactly what you would do.” And even Marcelo, Cris’ partner in crime, states that, “No one will be able to one up you.”

Reluctantly, Cris obliges to their stupid idea and prepares Marcelo’s bucket, stripped down to his CR7 briefs. Bale starts the video and Marcelo begins talking nervously fast and Cris only picks up on one of the nominations, Neymar, before he almost misses his cue, coming into the camera view a little late and dumping the bucket’s contents. Marcelo sort of yelps out of surprise and the guys laugh from behind the camera, the victim shaking his wet mop of hair to dry it immediately.

And then it’s Cristiano’s turn. Sergio and Isco fill up two trashcans to the brim and Cristiano makes his introduction, grinning at the camera full on, leg shaking nervously but not enough to induce much suspicion. When the nominations come up, Cris realizes that he doesn’t really know whom he should choose. He grabs the easiest names at the front of his mind at the moment, provoking a couple grins and raised eyebrows from behind the camera. And then another name appears nudging at his thoughts, whispering itself over and over in his subconscious. Cristiano doesn’t even realize he’s saying the name until the words pass his lips.

 _“… and Leo Messi_.”

The rest of the guys hesitate for a moment after the name is pronounced, Di María recording the whole thing peeks his head from behind the phone to make a face and even Fábio and Isco holding the buckets seem to ponder over the Barça forward, until the water is rushing over Cristiano’s head, cold and hard against his hot skin. His teammates laugh and grin and it’s all over within a matter of seconds.

Sergio is beaming the whole ride home, talking about how much everyone is going to love Cris’ video and how it is so much better than everyone else’s just because he’s practically naked. He’s too caught up in Cristiano’s underwear stunt that he almost forgets his final nomination. Almost.

Ramos is pulling in front of his house and Cristiano unbuckling his seatbelt and grabbing his bag beneath his feet before the car has even stopped moving.

“And that bit at the end there? When you slipped Messi’s name in? Fuckin’ great, Cris, way to keep him on his toes,” Sergio pats Cris on the back happily, eyes crinkling when he smiles.

“I’m happy that you ended up doing it,” Sergio finishes.

“Me too,” Cristiano swallows hard, shutting the door uneasily and waving goodbye as he turns and walks up to his house, getting inside as quickly as possible.

 

The rest of the day passes quickly, more or less. Cristiano showers again, putting on a pair of sweats and a worn red t-shirt. He spends his time watching dumb English romantic comedies on TV, cooking, and rewatching his ice bucket challenge video at least once every 45 minutes, cringing every time he nominates Leo. The video quality on Di María’s phone is terrible, yet there is beauty in failure, since the quality is that of a 1930’s black and white film, it is virtually impossible to see the pause in Cristiano’s facial expression as he nominates Leo, giving the unsuspecting bystander the impression that it was Cristiano’s plan the whole time to pick Leo along with his other nominations.

It’s 8 pm, Cristiano is clearing his dishes from dinner, a recipe that Xabi had given him a while ago that he just _had_ to try for himself, when a certain pang of loneliness hits him like a rock. He’s standing in his vacant kitchen again, the floors are hard from underuse and the only sounds filling the house are the quiet hums of the dish washer and the fridge fighting for dominance with the TV sounding from the next room over, beating both kitchen appliances easily. He longs for another body next to him in his all too big bed and another set of feet walking across his floors and up his stairs.

What is he saying? He’s Cristiano Ronaldo he can have anyone he wants. Quickly, he shuts off the kitchen light before settling down on his couch to finish watching the movie he wasn’t really paying attention to. It’s something with Jennifer Lopez and how she accidentally got pregnant with a guy who sells cheese.

He texts a couple of his teammates while half listening to the dialogue flooding from the TV. Sergio is telling him about this new movie in theatres about apes when the doorbell rings. It’s almost 10 pm.

He shuffles barefoot to the door, suddenly aware of how tired he is and pulls the door open without a second thought, paying the price of being ill prepared for the person standing on his doorstep.

Cristiano gawks for a few moments at the shorter man. Lionel Messi is not a big guy, but he holds himself up pretty high. He wears a worn, light blue Argentina football t-shirt with an unzipped thin dark washed jacket over it. His hands are shoved deep in the pockets of his jeans and at first he hesitates to bring his dark eyes up to meet Cristiano’s. His hair is, well… messy, and sticks out a bit, but not as much as his ears, which look like they were crafted too big for his head.

Shyly, he rubs the back of his neck, shifting uncomfortably from one foot to the other, smiling softly, tongue tucked between his teeth, and mumbling a quiet, “Hi.”

 _Hi_. Lionel Messi flew all the way out to Madrid to just say hi? Cristiano stares at him expectantly, reminding himself to take control of the situation. He can tell that he’s making Leo feel uncomfortable and the smaller man looks as though he forgot why he came, expression dropping a little the longer he stares at Cristiano’s unimpressed face.

 _“Well?”_ Cristiano presses impatiently, leaning up against the doorframe, eyes sharp, glaring at his “rival”.

Cristiano never really considered Messi to be his rival. He’s just another talented guy competing and trying to be the best player he can be and it just so happens that the two of them butt heads more frequently than with other footballers. And sure he won the Ballon d’Or for the past four years before this one, but he doesn’t exactly _hate_ the guy for it.

Messi grins up at the man standing in the doorway and Cristiano wants to smack that smirk off his face. His eyes crinkle around the edges and his lips curve up smoothly.

“Can I use your shower?” Is all Leo says, still smiling.

“Why did you come here?” Cristiano replies starkly.

“So… is that a no to the shower?” Leo says calmly.

Cristiano is angry. How dare he. Who does he think he is coming here, saying “hi” like an old friend, asking to use his shower, hell to the no he can’t use his shower, it’s Cristiano’s shower and he doesn’t want Messi to dirty it up with his weird Argentinian germs.

But, his grip on the situation is slowly slipping. He’s just tired is all. He’s not feeling his regular arrogant, cocky self, and his sarcastic demeanor seemed to turn off hours ago.

“I can’t let you in,” is all Cris says. His voice sounds deflated, even to himself.

“Why not? I’ll wipe my feet I promise,” Leo says innocently.

“You know why. Don’t play games with me,” Cristiano looks down at Leo whose smile seems to waver a bit in the dim light.

Messi stands there, eyes trained on the Portuguese, face growing serious, “I just want to talk, okay?”

Cristiano sighs, moving out of the way just enough for the small Barça forward to walk passed, shoulders brushing. Cris pears out into the darkness before shutting the door.

Messi toes his sneakers off at the door and walks into the living room. He pauses in front of the TV, dark eyes watching the screen, slightly amused. Slowly, his eyes move up from the TV to a trophy shelf above teeming with various medals and hardware, including a single, Ballon d’Or, glimmering in the light from the TV. As if in a zombie-like trance, Leo reaches out a careful hand to touch the surface of the golden ball. The man is quite short and has to stand on his tiptoes to complete such a feat.

“Don’t have enough of your own so you have to take mine?” Ronaldo hisses out harsher than he expected.

As though he didn’t even realize what he was doing, Leo pulls his hand back, almost reluctantly, and smiles weakly to himself.

“What did you want to talk about?” Cris asks, and it’s almost as if he’s talking to himself because Messi appears not to be listening. He’s glancing around the room fondly, studying every framed jersey and photo on the wall.

“Lionel,” Cris says to get the other man’s attention.

Messi blushes, eyes to the floor, embarrassed, “Why did you nominate me for that challenge?”

Cristiano stares blankly back at Messi. He doesn’t exactly know _why,_ butit was partially Sergio’s fault for bringing him up earlier and he must’ve been thinking about the Argentinian at the moment and Cristiano can’t say that, that sounds too _weird_.

Unable to think of anything else to say, Cris switches the subject awkwardly, “Uh, do you still want that shower?”

Messi raises an eyebrow, unprepared for the offer, but nods anyway.

“Second door on the right up the stairs,” Cris says smoothly, regaining some of his composure, suddenly realizing how hot is cheeks have become.

 

Cris listens absentmindedly to the sound of the shower blasting on high from behind the shut bathroom door, light spilling from underneath and filtering into the dark room. He runs his hands through his hair as he sits on the edge of the bed, staring at the carpet. Messi left a trail of clothing on the floor as if he just took off his clothes as he walked into Cristiano’s bedroom, dropping a piece of clothing with each step, making himself at home immediately. The noise from the bathroom comes to an abrupt stop and there are a few moments of silent limbo before Leo enters the bedroom, towel around his waist. The bathroom light seeps into the room, framing Leo’s body, illuminating his face as he glances up, grinning, from retying his towel to an amused Cristiano watching him. Leo is more built than Cristiano expected him to be, he realizes, observing a few rogue water droplets weave their way across his abs. Leo catches Cris’ eyes, smiling at him like a child who was just caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Cris looks away, refusing to acknowledge the heat flooding to his face. He remembers that Leo does the occasional underwear photo shoot, not as serious as Cristiano’s, but more relaxed. He always wears a serious face and poses as though he’s not even trying, as though he stands in his underwear every day.

“Hey, can I borrow some clothes?” Leo asks, his back to Cristiano, hand on the dresser in front of him. The room may be dim, but Cristiano can easily make out the lower back dimples peaking out from underneath the towel.

“Sure,” Cristiano replies without even thinking the question over.

He dares not to look up when he hears the towel hit the floor followed by the sound of drawers being pulled out and rummaged through.

“Why’d you challenge me?” Leo asks, voice piercing through the dark room.

Cristiano’s concentration breaks and he brings his head up to meet Leo’s dark eyes watching him like a dog. Those eyes show no emotion, as fierce as they are on the pitch as they are off. Without the smile adorning his face, Leo looks a broken man, and despite his many awards and trophies, he always wants more with a best that is never good enough. And Cristiano shares that pain with him. Cristiano knows that they have more in common than they’d like to admit; those eyes show him that.

He thinks back to the World Cup, to the final, Germany vs. Argentina. Cristiano had been on vacation and it was late at night when he settled down in his suite on the large leather couch and watched the game go into overtime. He had called the front desk of his hotel to send up champagne twenty minutes earlier, when the game was _supposed_ to end and it had yet to arrive. Out of the blue, Germany blows down the sideline and some _kid_ scores the game-winning goal. And Argentina loses the World Cup. The Germans celebrate, a huge mess of white against a green pitch, a sight Cristiano normally enjoys seeing, but this time he felt no joy. The Argentinians meander about aimlessly in their melancholy royal kits and the camera pans to a blank faced Messi. Hadn’t Cristiano wanted this? Ever since Portugal was knocked out, didn’t he just want Argentina to go next?  Leo accepted his golden ball with a face of stone, no emotion, just emptiness. That’s when the champagne arrived.

Leo is still standing there, towel drying his hair now, expecting an answer from the Portuguese. Leo is wearing a pair of Cris’ sweats low on his hips, low enough to expose the CR7 waistband underneath resting comfortable on his hips.

“Is that really why you came all the way here?” Cristiano replies, unconsciously licking his lips, convincing himself in the process that they’re just dry.

Leo pulls a soft cotton Madrid shirt over his head, admiring the words temporarily, making no motion to pick a different one out. He picks up the wet towel off the floor and tosses it into the bathroom then flicks off the light.

“There’s got to be a reason why you challenged me of all people,” Leo shuts the bathroom door, reentering the room.

“Don’t flatter yourself, I picked three other people before you,” Cristiano says, standing up from his seat at the foot of the bed.

“But you still picked me,” Leo says with optimism in his voice.

Cristiano grows annoyed fast, “So what? Don’t look into it so much.”

He turns away from Leo leaning against the shut bathroom door, and proceeds to pick up old clothing off the floor and toss it into the hamper in the corner a little too roughly, missing most of his shots. Then he comes to a stop where Leo’s clothes sit. He can feel his eyes watching him and Cristiano briefly thinks that he should fold them nicely. Instead, he just kicks them to the corner with the side of his foot carelessly.

“I think you’re lonely. I think you wanted attention from someone who understands you,” Leo says softly.

Cristiano whips around to face Leo, done with his assumptions, “That’s a big leap for someone so short.”

“And someone as successful as yourself should have settled down by now, no?” Leo continues to press.

Cris takes a few long strides toward Messi so they’re almost inches apart. He looks down at the smaller man, “Shut up.”

“It’s okay to have feelings, Cris.”

“Don’t call me that,” Cristiano snaps back immediately.

And Leo is grinning again. His eyes wander from Cristiano’s piercing eyes to his lips. Cris watches him do this, slowly losing patience and control until he surges forward, pressing their lips together. And it’s like Leo was anticipating this move all along, waiting for Cris to snap, responding by threading his fingers and tugging at Cris’ hair, deepening the kiss fast. Cristiano slips his tongue into Leo’s mouth easily, but lets out a surprise groan when Leo bites down on his bottom lip instead. He never took Leo as a biter.

Leo moves fast, desperately pushing a hand underneath Cristiano’s shirt, coarse hands brushing against his sensitive skin, but not getting far before Cris responds by shoving the smaller man against the shut door, shifting a leg to rub against his crotch. Leo is coming undone fast and if Cristiano doesn’t draw the moment out, he’ll miss it. Cristiano grabs both Leo’s hands, holding them against the door above his head and breaking the kiss.

Cris leans in close and whispers against Leo’s already kiss-swollen lips, “I’m running the show now.”

Leo wriggles like an upset child under Cristiano’s grip, whimpering a little impatiently when Cris responds by licking a thick line from his collarbone up his neck, pressing soft kisses against his pulse point. Leo attempts to buck his hips up, begging for more friction, but Cristiano takes his time, sucking on an earlobe then biting up the other man’s jaw playfully.

“Cris,” Leo hisses out when Cristiano grinds their hips together without warning, licking and biting bruises against the other man’s collarbone relentlessly.

“I told you,” Cristiano pauses, lips just inches away from Leo’s, “ _don’t call me that_.”

He lets go of Leo’s wrists and grabs his ass through his sweats. Leo moans into the thick of Cristiano’s shoulder and Cris laughs at that. Leo Messi, the best player in the world, is completely wrecked, totally undone, with just a little touching and kissing.

And when Cris stops grinding his hips, Leo is making some pretty embarrassing noises, “Come _on_ ,” he breathes out.

“Come on what? What do you want me to do? Tell me,” Cristiano grins, breathing hard.

Leo shakes his head, refusing to embarrass himself further.

When Leo tries to pull Cristiano down for another kiss, Cristiano holds himself out of reach and Leo responds by abruptly shoving Cris backwards forcefully, falling onto the bed. The Argentine follows afterward, straddling his hips and putting most of his weight on Cris’ erection. Cris makes quick work of his shirt and Leo works with finesse, biting and kissing down Cristiano’s abs, pulling his sweatpants and underwear down in one swift motion.

Cristiano’s eyes roll back so fast it’s nauseating when Leo takes his cock in his mouth. He squeezes his eyes shut and tries not to focus on Leo’s tongue swirling on the tip and the _sounds_ he’s making, gripping the sheets tightly in his fists. He dares to sneak a glimpse, but it’s like Leo is waiting for him to do so. He grins in approval of Cris’ curiosity, eyes locked on his.

“Oh God, Leo,” Cristiano hisses when Leo pulls off with a heinous pop, leaving him breathless.

Cristiano gives Leo no time to react before he’s got the smaller man pressed against the door again, tearing the Madrid shirt off his chest while Leo fumbles with the sweats. Cristiano hesitates with his fingers at the waistband of the CR7 briefs that Leo is wearing. He likes the way Leo looks in his brand, but he likes the way Leo looks naked better, and removes them.

Cris strokes Leo all too slowly until he’s panting against Cristiano’s shoulder, biting and whimpering until Cris is afraid he might come before the fun has even started. When Cris stops altogether, Leo seems to let out a sigh of relief, letting his head rest against the door.

Taking Leo’s chin in one hand, Cristiano whispers, “I’m going to fuck you,” swiping a thumb across his bottom lip, watching as his eyes widen with lust and want.

Cristiano starts out slow, setting the pace, until Leo grows impatient and tries to push down against Cris’ cock. That’s when he presses Leo against the door harder, rolling his hips faster, and locking their lips for a desperate, controlling kiss.

Leo is loud. Like really fucking loud. He digs his short nails into the muscles in Cristiano’s back, throwing his head back, exposing his neck dotted with bruises from Cristiano’s mouth, coming hard, shouting out Cristiano’s name, filling the room. And Cris doesn’t last long after that, pumping faster into Leo, gasping out his name when he comes.

And then the house is quiet except for the harsh breathing of the two footballers coming down. They clean up with a corner of one of the bed sheets and climb underneath together. Leo rests his head against Cristiano’s chest. Cris leans back against the pillows, an arm reclined behind his head, petting the other hand absent-mindedly through Leo’s hair. He watches the Argentine, who flicks his eyes up to meet Cristiano’s. Leo’s stubble is growing in and he will probably need to shave tomorrow morning. Cris kind of likes it though. His hair is cropped short, making him actually look his age, instead of some kid with long hair and bangs. Cris rubs a thumb through his stubble, eyes locked. He has so many questions, but doesn’t want to ask them, doesn’t want to ruin a moment so complete, because for the first time in a long time, Cristiano doesn’t feel so alone and empty.

“I’m glad you’re here,” is what Cristiano ends up whispering through the darkness.

Leo just smiles, “I knew you’d be.”

Even though it seemed like a pointless idea at first, Cristiano looks down at the person pressed against his skin, breathing even, and is thankful for the ice bucket challenge.

**Author's Note:**

> This was my first football fic I normally do hockey stuff, but I'm a football fan too and I just really like this pairing, they're so great together and there really aren't enough fics written about them. I'll probably (most likely) write more of this pairing in the future and I really hope you guys liked it!


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